


Sunday Mornings

by AnimeDomo



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: AU, Brief mention of Oikawa and Kuroo, Coffee Shop, Fluff and Angst, M/M, mostly fluff tho, tequila is also mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 09:02:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6464146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnimeDomo/pseuds/AnimeDomo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunday mornings became...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really out of practice with writing and everything sucks lmao.
> 
> I've been stuck on contemplating love and companionship so here's some garbage.
> 
> I've been listening to this playlist (http://8tracks.com/thamwn/daily-dose-of-magic) a lot to write recently. It's absolutely beautiful.

When Suga was ten years old Sunday mornings were for sloppily completed homework and morning cartoons over bowls of cereal – pretty white china with bright yellow flowers around the rim. Sunday mornings were bike rides through town, pretending he was flying with his arms outstretched while he let his bike coast down the biggest hills in the prefecture. Sunday mornings were skinned knees and the tinkling laughter of his younger sister clinging to his heels as they mucked around the river till the sun set. Sunday mornings were a warm, bright yellow.

When Suga was thirteen Sunday mornings were volleyball down at the park with his school mates till it was dark and the street lights flickered on to light the path. Sunday mornings became the tradition of nursing a cup of coffee in the kitchen with his mother over small talk and a rushed breakfast – _the garden was doing nicely, maybe yellow petunias this year?_ Sunday mornings were when Suga learned that he hated the taste of coffee.

When Suga was sixteen Sunday mornings became extra study time; the plastic smell of pencil shavings and shrinking pink erasers. Soft, exasperated curses with each mistake. The sweet trill of the forests and hills and small town streets he used to explore became the metronome of the ticking clock above his desk, counting away how many math problems he could complete before he was screaming into his pillow. Sunday mornings became day dreams of sky blue, watching the family of robins in the nest just beyond his window pane in the Zelkova branches. Sunday mornings were empty and repetitive and felt cement-grey, like an eternally overcast sky. Sunday mornings were as dark as the violaceous crescents under his eyes.

When Suga was eighteen Sunday mornings became stacks of novels left haphazardly around his room and pages of smeared poetry he kept hidden in his drawers, black ink staining his slender fingers when he stashed them away. Sunday mornings became trying to ignore the dates of exams and applications marked in red on the calender above his desk, even for just a few hours of peace. Sunday mornings were cups of bitter coffee in the kitchen over small talk with his mother – _your sister's trying out for volleyball this year_ – and Suga crosses his ankles as he leans against the pristine counter and smiles while his mother speaks – trying to pretend that the days still feel as yellow and bright as they used to.

When Suga is twenty-one Sunday mornings become rank and sticky – the heavy grey of shadows in an apartment that isn't his. Sunday mornings were peeling himself off of Oikawa Tooru's couch with a raging headache before the sun even rose, stepping over bodies of people he didn't recognize to find his jacket and telling himself it'll be the last damn time he lets Oikawa and Kuroo convince him that tequila is a band-aid for a lonely heart. Sunday mornings become a shameful walk in yesterdays jeans to the coffee shop a few streets over where the same dark-haired barista always greets him with a smile at 7am. 

Sunday mornings become visits to the coffee shop even on the weekends he doesn't wake up on Oikawa's floor because the morning barista's smile is warm and comforting and everything Suga remembers Sunday mornings being.

Sunday mornings once again become quiet moments to nurse a cup of bitter coffee – but this time he was tucked away in a corner of that coffee shop down the street from his apartment. The morning shift barista drops into the seat across from him on break, reaching to steal a piece of the muffin he had served Suga just ten minutes before, and gives him a smile that makes Suga's face feel as warm as the coffee in his hands. Sunday mornings become the tentative brush of fingers and exchanged numbers and silly faces drawn on disposable coffee cups. Sunday mornings become watching the sun rise with Daichi Sawamura and snorting into his coffee as the world crawls by outside the window. Sunday mornings become bright again.

Sunday mornings become sleepy conversations muttered into rumpled pillows before work and soft goodbyes. Sunday mornings become interlocked fingers and forehead kisses in the warm haze of the morning, warm fingers running through his hair and lips pressed to the violet crescents under his eyes. Sunday mornings become new novels and poetry left open on his desk – windows thrown open and birdsong floating on the breeze. Sunday mornings become chores and broom fights and singing with the radio and bickering over grocery lists. Sunday mornings become shoulder kisses and annoying alarms and dark bruises that only make Suga glow like the sun because he is so in love with the man next to him that he cannot contain his wonderment and his heart feels fit to burst. Sunday mornings become full of Daichi's obnoxious laughter and Suga's endeared exasperation and the thrumming of their collective heartbeats, feeling as though they had always meant to find themselves here. Sunday mornings become bright and golden and treasured.


End file.
